Simple Song
by Darkpenn
Summary: All that matters is what we take with us, and what we leave behind, and what we keep in the secret places of our heart, forever.


**Simple Song**

 _All that matters is what we take with us, and what we leave behind, and what we keep in the secret places of our heart, forever._

* * *

She stared through the window along the valley, towards the rows of peaks in the distance. She saw them but did not see them. Instinctively, she touched the marks on her arm. Healed. On the outside.

She liked it here, liked the job, liked that the Waldhaus Flims spa was a long way from anything. She wondered what she would do when her contract ended in a month and the place closed for the winter. Would she go back to where she had been before? Could she _not_ go back?

The alarm on the little table beeped. One minute to the next client. She looked at the list. Fred Ballinger. This would be his second session. What was it that he had said last time? That he liked her because she did not feel obliged to chat, something like that. She had said that she preferred to speak with her hands. It seemed a reasonable response from a masseuse, even a second-line one like her.

She dipped her finger into the bowl of oil above the little flame. Yes, it was the right temperature. All was in order.

He knocked on the door and came in, and she gestured for him to take off the spa robe and lie down, which he did. But she saw him take something – something small and red and shiny – from the robe pocket. As she put the towel over his buttocks, she saw how he held it between his fingers. Gently, almost tender. She saw that it was the wrapper from a chocolate. She wondered why he had it.

She set to work, rubbing the oil over his shoulders. As she did, she realised that he was rustling the wrapper. Not just rustling, but moving it between his fingers in a certain way. To a certain rhythm. It was almost as if he was playing a tune, a tune that he had in his head. It sounded familiar, even played this way. She knew it, she had heard it, her body knew it, what was it – ?

She suddenly jumped back from him, as if from an electric current.

"I know that!" she said. "I know it! It is _She Wolf_!"

He lifted himself up. "Why, yes, yes it is," he said. "I'm surprised you know it. Very few people do."

"I ... I ... I dance to it," she said, her voice hardly a whisper.

He started. "Really?" he said. "Well, that is very ... peculiar."

"How do you know it?"

"My dear, I wrote it. As part of the _Life of Hadrian_ suite. But I would think it would be a bit too ... spiky ... to dance to."

She looked puzzled. "It is on the iDance computer program," she said. "Electronic music. But it is the same tune, I am sure of it."

Now it was Fred who was puzzled. Then he suddenly realised. "Yes, I remember Lena telling me about it, quite a few years ago," he said. "One of these new synthesiser musicians wanted to use it as the basis for a piece, and he paid a good fee for it. I imagine it ended up sounding very different to the original. But that is the way of these things, isn't it. At some point you have to let what you have created go out into the world to fend for itself. A bit like a child, perhaps. So ... you dance to it? How does the program work?"

She explained how there was an image on the computer screen, and how you followed the movements. She explained that the program offered many pieces of music but _She Wolf_ was her favourite.

"Are you a dancer?" he asked. "As well as a masseuse?"

She shook her head. "I studied music a little when I was young, in Sarajevo, that's all. I'm not a dancer. I only do it when I am alone."

To her surprise, Fred Ballinger nodded. He lowered his voice. "You know, sometimes, when I am alone, I compose music," he said. "In my head. Well, not entirely alone. I conduct it with the cows, up on the hillside."

She gave a shy little grin. "I do not think that cows count," she said. She looked at him, and he smiled at her, a smile that was gentle, even playful. She had never told anyone about the dancing. She was suddenly aware of the braces on her teeth, of the stick-like shape of her body, of the marks on her arm.

"Perhaps they do not," he said. "So that means that we have shared a secret, you and I."

"I suppose," she said, "it does."

There was a sound. It took her a few moments to realise that it was the alarm telling her that the massage session was over. She started.

"Oh no!" she said. "I have not finished the massage! I'm so sorry! Mister Ballinger, I'm so sorry!"

He smiled again, and swung himself off the table. "Think nothing of it, my dear," he said as he put on the robe. He paused. "To tell the truth, I don't particularly like massages, but the doctor insists. As we have shared a secret, I suppose you should call me Fred. What is your name?"

She paused. Then: "It is ... Luna."

* * *

She lay in her bed in her little room in the staff quarters, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Mister Ballinger. She wondered if he wanted anything from her. There were several masseuses who were happy to offer sex to men – or women – who came for a massage. One of the girls she knew, Suzette, said that you could earn a good deal of money on the side if you wanted, and the management did not disapprove. Waldhaus Flims prided itself on being a full-service spa.

But to Luna it sounded like returning to a place she did not want to go. She had tried the sex-for-money thing, when she had been desperate for cash, and she had quickly discovered that she was neither sufficiently attractive nor sufficiently interested in it to be successful. And when the weight had begun to fall off her, there were even fewer people willing to pay. There were plenty of other girls, prettier and just as much in need, if not more.

And of course Mister Ballinger might not want that. He made no effort to hide his age. He had spoken kindly to her, which was unusual. Around the spa, she had seen him in the company of a dark-haired woman, but she did not look like a girlfriend. Assistant, perhaps, or a relative.

She got out of bed and sorted through her collection until she found the case of the iDance DVD. There was a little booklet, and she looked up the credits for _She Wolf_. Yes, Fred Ballinger was cited as the original composer.

"Huh," she said aloud. She went back to bed. She wondered if she would see him again. She wondered if she wanted to.

* * *

It was two days later, at the start of the day. Luna was looking at the work roster. She saw that the manager had moved a new client from her list to Suzette's list, and Fred Ballinger had been put in the vacancy. She asked her why. The manager replied that Ballinger had called and asked if that could be done, and she had agreed. She had, she said, assumed that the time was more convenient for him. Luna said that, yes, that was probably the case.

So now she was giving him a massage. Neither of them had spoken. But it was a warm and gentle silence, the vista of mountains and slopes spreading before them on the other side of the window.

The alarm went, signalling the end of the session. He sat up and said: "Thank you, Luna. I hope you did not mind me asking for you."

"No, I did not mind," she said.

He turned to go.

Suddenly, she said: "Sometimes ... sometimes I swim. At night. When it is late. We – the staff – are allowed when it is late. I swim in the Step Pool."

He stared at her.

"There is never anyone else there," she said. "After eleven. I go after eleven."

He continued to stare at her. Then he said: "Is this an invitation, Luna?"

She glanced away. "I am just saying," she said, "that I swim in the Step Pool when it is late. When there is no-one else there."

He again turned to go. He was at the door when he stopped, and, over his shoulder, said: "The Step Pool. Eleven."

* * *

She was swimming underwater. Below her there was only darkness, an inky swirl of shadows. They called to her. They beckoned. She wanted to reach out to them, grab hold of them, let them carry her down, down, down and away, away forever, forever ...

She fought her way to the surface, bursting from the water. Weakly, she swam to the edge, and climbed out. She sat on the edge, her feet on the uppermost step, shivering.

"Why do you dance only when no-one can see you?" he said, sitting down beside her and putting a towel over her shoulders.

She thought about it for a long time before she answered. "Because when you dance, people can see you. See what you really are," she said. "So I am afraid."

He nodded. "I understand," he said.

And she believed that he did.

After a while, she pushed the towel away and pulled her bathing suit down to her waist, exposing her breasts. She always thought of them as small. Small and hollow.

"Luna," he said, "if you think I want ... well, you are about twenty years too late. Ten, maybe. But too late, is my point."

She shrugged. "I know," she said. "And I know I am not very attractive. I do not even like sex much. I just wanted ... a man to see me. See me here."

He looked at her body. He sighed. "Perhaps only five years," he said.

She smiled.

"What is it," he said, "that you are hiding from?"

She was again silent for a long time. Then she held out her arm. Even in the pale light, the marks were evident.

"I used to be a drug addict," she said. "Perhaps I still am. I suppose you disapprove of me now."

"Speaking as a man who has indulged in nearly every vice there is, I am hardly in a position to disapprove."

"The thing is," she said, "I did it because I loved it. Not the lifestyle, not the people, but the drugs. I loved the way they made me feel. There are times when I can think of nothing else. I am afraid that I will be pulled back there, when my job here finishes. That is in a few weeks. I suppose I am afraid of the past. And I am afraid of returning to the world."

"Is that why you wear the braces?" he said. "Because of the drugs?"

"Yes. I would grind my teeth when I was coming down, which caused a lot of damage. Every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded."

They were both quiet, watching the patterns on the water, the ripples around their feet.

"And what are you afraid of?" said Luna.

He considered. "Perhaps ... I am afraid of the future," he said. "I have been asked to conduct one of my pieces, for a special performance, in London. I have told them I have retired, that I have given it up, that I am unwell. But the doctor here has just told me that I am fit and healthy, in excellent condition for my extremely advanced age. I have told the people that have come to me that it is because of my wife, who is now beyond singing, beyond caring, beyond anything. She was the first one to sing the piece, you see, and the only one I conducted. I told them that it was because of her, and I have told myself that, and I almost believed it. But in my heart I know that if she could speak she would say that that is not the reason. It is an excuse, and not even a good one."

"Then ... what?"

"I think it is ... because I am afraid of failure. It is such a huge thing, to step in front of an audience, knowing that you might fail. That you can get it wrong, mess it up, found out to be a fraud."

"And that," she said, "is why I only dance when no-one can see me."

"And," he said, "it is why I only conduct for the cows." He stared at her. "How did a young masseuse get to be so wise?" he said.

She shrugged. "The drugs tell you a lot of things," she said. "A lot of things about yourself. Some of them you want to hear, and some you don't. But you have to listen anyway."

Their hands found each other, tenderly.

"There is something I would like you to do for me," he said.

* * *

Fred Ballinger wiped tears from his eyes. "That ... that was wonderful," he said.

A trickle of sweat ran down Luna's cheek. "Yes," she said. "It was not as I might have thought. But, yes, it was wonderful. Thank you, Mister Ballinger."

"It is I," he said, "who should be thanking you. But I suppose we can call it even."

She considered. "Not just yet," she said.

* * *

Luna looked at the body on the massage table before her. Rolls of Russian fat, the product of decades of indulgence.

She stared through the window along the valley, towards the rows of peaks in the distance. She saw them but did not see them.

Only another few days before the end of the season. It was the day that Fred would be leaving, he had told her. In a few hours. She wondered where he was, right at this moment. Then she realised that she knew.

The Russian turned her head to look at her. "Get on with it, girl," she said sharply.

And then Luna was running, out of the room, out of the building, laughing as she realised she could not go back, she was leaving it behind, she would not go back. She ran along the road towards the field where the cows grazed, laughing, her heart laughing.

And she saw him, sitting on a stump on the hillside, not moving, just staring into space. When he saw her he stood up and came towards her, down the slope, arms open. She ran up to him and embraced him, panting.

"I did it," she said. "Last night. I danced for some of my friends. The other staff. I don't know if they liked it, I was so afraid ... but I did it. I could do it because I had danced for you."

He hugged her. "Luna," he said. "You have such courage."

"And now," she said, "you must have courage too. You must go to London. You must do the performance."

"I ... I can't ... I don't have the strength to do it alone ... "

"But," she said, "you will not be alone."

* * *

Fred Ballinger turned to face the applauding crowd. He acknowledged the singer, the violinist, the orchestra. But there was only one face he really wanted to see. And then he saw her, standing in the curtains at the side of the stage. Her eyes were shining, her face was wet with tears of joy.

He saw her mouth the words: _I love you._

Silently, he said them back to her.

They had returned to the world.

END


End file.
